


Sacrifice

by pisum_sativum



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Food Issues, Gen, Hungry Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Poverty, Sacrifice, Starvation, Suffer in silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pisum_sativum/pseuds/pisum_sativum
Summary: Dad was gone, leaving behind a 100 dollar bill and a rumpled note: one month.It simply wasn't enough to feed 2 growing boys for one month.But for one? Dean could make sure it was enough to feed one.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 100





	Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: EATING ISSUES

Dad was gone, leaving behind a 100 dollar bill and a rumpled note: one month.

It simply wasn't enough to feed 2 growing boys for one month.

But for one? Dean could make sure it was enough to feed one.

His brother had been eating like a horse ever since he hit his teenage years, Dean noticed. He damn noticed as he sat across the table with an empty plate and empty excuses.

_ Already ate. _

How could I have eaten? When could I have fucking eaten?

He wanted Sam to notice, to ask. If Sam asked, Dean wasn't sure he could withhold the real answer or--to be honest--wanted to.

But Sam didn't ask.

_ Don't feel good. _

Ask me how I feel.

_ A shrug. _

_ Don't feel like it. _

I want to eat. I fucking want to. But if I do, there wouldn't be enough for you.

The kid bitched. He didn't complain out loud or anything, but he mumbled something about history homework and walked away to waiting arms of a neat pile of books on the desk.

Homework, huh?

Where was his homework when his baby brother asked him to go to a football match and he accompanied him?

Where was his homework when he had to do everyone's laundry?

Dean cleaned up the dish and went to bed early. To escape.

"Dean, can't find my pencil!"

"Take mine!" That was fine. He still had his pen, or he so hoped. If he didn't, well, he had to make do with his friend's.

He didn't sleep well. Too hungry. Empty stomach protested. Bones digging uncomfortably into the mattress.

He woke, tired, feeling like a zombie. Dizziness threatened to take over.

Water. He shugged in water. Until he felt slight nausea.

His stomach full of empty calories.

Stealing a spoon of chocolate cereal, a dash of milk careful not to pour too much. The rest he could fill with more water.

He would survive until lunch, filled but unsatisfied.

He went to wake Sam, irrationally hoping his brother didn't know he ate the cereal. It felt like guilt, like stealing.

He watched as Sam ate, drinking in the sight of his brother slurping the milk crunching the cereal. He felt like a pervert. He wanted to moan, to lick the last drop from the bowl. He probably would, if Sam left it on the table, or unwashed in the dingy sink.

Instead, Sam washed it up, along with the plastic cup Dean had used: a small peace offering.

Dean envisaged today's dinner. What to make for Sam.

If he planned carefully, there could have a small portion for himself also. His stomach churned in delight, making him cinch the belt a little tighter. His pants wouldn't stay on his hips anymore without its aid.

Dean didn't even make it to the second period before his stomach growled. Luckily it was a small sound, only heard by himself. It echoed in his head, echoed his bodies need for nourishment. He chewed on his pen, thinking of ramen this evening. Sam would bitch about nutritional value but that would be worth it. There would be warm, hot food in his stomach instead of emptiness.

Emptiness.

He was so filled with emptiness. 

In his eyes. In his hollow stomach. In the space between his rib bones. Between his skin and clothes Sam grew out of and Dean shrank into.

He hollowed himself out to fill Sam. Sam, who was now so, so full. Smart, healthy, happy.

Dean couldn't resent him for that. He only regretted that lately Sam had been full of himself. Too full to realize something was not alright. Dean should have been glad because it meant he succeeded in what he did. But he could feel no victory, only loss.

Time dragged by slowly, agonizingly, until lunch hour.

It probably tasted like shit, like cafeteria lunch, either too salty or too bland.

Dean didn't fucking care. It was food.

It quieted down the dull roar in his ears, enough to hear a jealous voice from someone on the Same bench, something about eating however much he wanted and didn't get fat.

It was such a stupid remark, and so untrue.

He didn't reply too them of course, busy stuffing more into his mouth.

He got another helping.

It felt nice. His stomach full, nice and warm.

Then another.

He forced himself to chew, to swallow. Even if it felt stuck in his neck. He ignored the discomfort. Chew swallow.

Push the limit. Push the restrain of his belt. Ignore the nausea. The urge to sick. Wide-eyed stares. Don't see it. Please, not Sam. Don't let Sam see it. Don't let Sam see him eating.

He clutched at his stomach, eyeing the now empty tray, cursing it for this necessary discomfort. Necessary because tomorrow was Saturday and there would be no school meaning no lunch.

Maybe skip dinner, ramen at a later date. Maybe Sunday dinner, or breakfast if it got too bad.

He snuck to toilet to loosen the belt, to savor the feeling of not-hungry alone and rubbed his small temporary paunch. Tomorrow it would be gone and he would be hungry again. But for now he could pretend he was just another boy, not a brother who used himself to shield his sibling from shitty things life threw at them.

To suffer so his Sam be spared.

Next class was a bliss. He lost himself in a world of dreams. He drifted off, hidden in beautiful darkness of the space between the crook of his arm and the desk.

The last bell rang, he walked Sam to the motel, telling him the same thing. Lock the door, don't open it for stranger. Sam rolled his eyes.

He went to supermarket. Ramen, chicken-flavoured, because the kid liked that one most. Pasteurized milk because the kid thought it tasted better. Some vegs, so the kid would shut up about nutrition. He hesitated before reaching the cashier, calculating the price in his head, before going back to make sure it was the most cost-effective option.

Fucking paranoid.

He stopped at the noodles aisle, itching to change chicken to spicy. His mouth watered. How good it would be in his mouth. Oh, the aroma. He swallowed.

He couldn't do this. Sam didn't eat spicy food. He couldn't choose himself over Sam. He replaced the spicy on the shelf. When had he grabbed it? How long had he been standing here, trembling, deciding between two fucking flavours?

His fingers lingered over the money as he paid, like a lover's farewell.

Dread knotted his not-yet-empty stomach when his phone rang. It squeezed his gut when he saw who called.

Dad.

Listen to what he wanted to say. Reply what he wanted to hear.

The phone slipped out of his grip when the call ended.

One week. He had to make do with one fucking more week.

He bent down to pick up the phone, but he ended up on his knees instead.

The ground shook underneath him. Oh, no, it was his body that was shaking. A drop fell down, darkening the pavement to dark gray.

Tear, his tear.

He was struck again with the urge to throw up, which he would without a thought if it could be restored to food it once was so that Sam could eat it.

The world wobbled as he thought that one day Sam would know how dirt-poor they really fucking were with father who never stayed in one place long enough to really work, that one day Sam would knew hunger like he did.

He lost his lunch right then, vaguely aware of someone asking if he was okay.

No, he wasn't.

He didn't reply. He ran.

Sam raked his eyes over him, lips twitching like he was going to say something, but didn't.

Concern? He thought he saw concern in the kid's expression, but too tired to notice, too tired to care.

Sam plopped back to his desk, to hunch over his oh-so-important homework, scribbling something with that pencil he had asked from Dean.

"Everything alright?" Sam asked, shifting in his seat, probably feeling the heaviness of his gaze.

"Yes," Dean replied softly, his mouth still tasted like bile and lunch, "everything's alright."

  



End file.
